Hijacked
by Chris Williams
Summary: A United Airlines Boeing 747 is hijacked by five terrorists. The pilots, both former USAF F-16 pilots, airline captain Chris Williams and his first officer, John Harper, have to regain control of the airplane or risk the hijacking being the unfinished mission of 9/11. That is, if they can make it.


The cockpit door flew open. Chris, startled, looked back.

"Fuck!"He jumped up and drew his gun, but before he could pull the trigger a man knocked the gun from his hand. Chris went after it. He almost had the gun when the man stabbed him in the chest. Chris fell back into his seat.

John was fighting another hijacker. Three or four of them had rushed in. He pushed one down only to turn to another. As he fought to keep control of the plane, he glanced over at Chris, who was trying to regain his strength.

Chris quickly set the transponder to Mode 3/A, Code 7500. He stood, gasping for breath. He could feel where he'd been stabbed. He fought to ignore the pain.

He turned and punched one of the hijackers square in the jaw, sending the man to the floor. He turned to another and grabbed the man's arm, stopping his attack. He tripped the hijacker and let him fall to the floor, then kicked him in the side. He turned around to another, the one he had punched, and threw him against the wall.

Chris turned to look at John and froze. One of the hijackers, holding Chris's gun, pulled the trigger and sent a bullet through Chris's chest. Chris cried out in pain and fell back, holding his chest where the bullet hit.

John yelled and tried to take the gun and in turn was also stabbed. He fell, holding his chest as he hit the ground.

Chris struggled and fought with the hijackers as they dragged him and John outside the cockpit. He kicked and screamed and cursed.

" God damn you! I'll fucking kill you! No one hijacks my plane and lives to talk about it!"

They shut the door and locked it. Chris continued yelling and cursing. Finally he ran out of breath.

"Chris, are you alright?" John asked fearfully.

It took a moment for Chris to answer. "I'm fine, John. Don't worry about me."

"Don't worry about you? You just got shot!"

"So? I'm still alive. They missed my heart."

"But you still can't live long with a gun wound!"

Chris tried to ignore that comment. He knew it was true. It was only a matter of time now.

He moved his left hand, which was covered in blood, and looked at his shirt. The red stood out in sharp contrast against the white.

'We've got to get back there, to the passengers, the attendents. We've got to come up with a plan to take back this plane."

"How? Look at us! We've both been stabbed and you've been shot!"

"We've got to." Chris stood slowly and took a step, leaning against the wall for support. He tensed and grimaced, cursing under his breath.

"You coming?" he asked, offering John a hand.

John nodded. He helped himself up. Using the seats as support, they helped each other down the empty aisle of the empty first class section.

Chris reached up to pull the curtain away, but lost his balance and went falling to the floor, bringing John with him. The pilots tumbled through the doorway.

Chris looked up and saw another hijacker staring down at them. He grabbed the man's leg and pulled him to the floor. As the hijacker fell he hit his head on a seat, knocking him unconscious.

Chris glanced over at John. John glared back at him. Chris smiled awkwardly, as much as his pain would allow, and apologizd. He pushed himself up, then helped John.

The passengers stopped what they were doing and stared at them. Some screamed, others gasped. None of them breathed as they took in the pilots' status.

"Everything's alright," Chris assured them. "Now, if you will excuse us, we've got to get to the back."

The passengers cleared a path. As the pilots walked toward the back, they saw people calling thier families. Chris thought about calling his wife, then decided not to. He didn't want her to worry.

The flight attendents gasped when they saw the pilots.

"It's fine. Everything's fine," Chris said before the attendents could speak. "I need some of you to go get that hijacker and put him in a seat and buckle him up or something. I don't know. Restrain him in case he regains consciosness."

The pilots stepped into the kitchen with the remaining attendents. Chris pulled the curtain shut.

Turning back to the attendents, he said, "We've got to take back this plane."

"Captain, look at you! We need to get help for both of you before we do anything else," the senior flight attendent said.

"No, no, we're fine. We're alive, we're breathing, we're fine," John said.

Chris sighed. "Taking back control of this plane is more important. If we die, two people die. If we fail to take control, lots of people may die. For all we know, this plane could be headed for the White House," he said. "If I'm gonna die, I'm not going without a fight."

"Can we at least see if a doctor is onboard?"

Chris felt too tired to argue. "Fine. Go ahead. I don't care."

The attendent hurried past them.

John looked over at Chris.

"Damn, Chris. You look pale."

"This is just my natural complexion."

"No, it's not. You're losing too much blood. You need to sit down."

"Fuck! Why won't you guys just leave me alone? I can take care of myself! Damn!" Chris yelled.

John was silent.

"Listen, I'm sorry," Chris apologized. "It's just that we've got more important things to do than worry about me, but that's all we're doing. Just act like it didn't happen."

"Okay."

"Besides, look at you. You're hurt too."

"Yeah, but not as bad as you are."

"Never mind. Just forget about it," Chris said, irritated.

The attendents came back from their various duties.

"There's no doctor," one said quietly.

"That's okay. We're fine," John said, looking over at Chris.

"So, what can qualify as a weapon?" Chris asked, changing the subject.

"Not much," an attendent said. "We've got some silverware. Unfortnately, we only have butterknives, no real knives, and-"

"What about pots?"

"Yeah."

"Boil some water."

The attendent looked at him curiously.

"Chris, this isn't time for coffee." John said jokingly.

"Not coffee. I read a book about United 93 and it mentioned something about throwing boiling water on the hijackers. We could do that. But, now that you mention it, coffee would be nice also."

"That's a good idea," John agreed, "but we can't take back this plane with hot water and silverware. We need something better." He paused. "You," he pointed to an attendent. "Go see what the passengers have to offer."

She hurried off.

They heard the cockpit door open and close. Chris grabbed a skillet and ran to the front. He stood by the door. A foot stepped through. Chris swung as hard as he could. The man fell.

"Check him!" John hollered from the back. Chris knelt down and checked the man's pockets.

"Look what I found!" he yelled to John, holding up a gun for him to see.

"That yours?" John asked.

"Hell yeah it's mine!" Chris shouted. He glanced up through the doorway. "I'll be back," he said.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

Chris didn't answer. He came back several minutes later. "They tossed our stuff outside the door." He was carrying their flight bags, jackets, and caps. He tossed it all in a seat.

"How is that going to help?"

"I don't know. I'm just glad I've got my jacket. It's fucking cold."

"Chris, it's not cold."

"The hell it isn't!"

"It's not! You've lost too much blood. I don't even know how you're still standing!"

"I'm fine." Chris took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He lit one, inhaled the smoke, and coughed.

"Don't do that!" John tried to take the cigarette from him. Chris held it away. "You don't need it! You're shot!"

"Exactly. It might be my last one." He took another drag.

John turned away, disgusted at Chris. He thought about what was going on. Today might be the last day he ever saw Chris. He turned and looked at Chris, who held his right side with his left hand, where he got shot. John knew that smoking was Chris's way to deal with the stress. Still, he wished Chris wouldn't smoke with his injury being so severe.

John paced back and forth. He gazed at the floor and held his hands stiff behind his back. He had no idea what to do.

Chris's side ached worse. His vision was blurred. He felt light-headed. It was hard to breath.

"John," he said faintly.

"One minute, Chris"

"John!"

John stopped and looked over at Chris. He was pale and shaking badly. He wavered on his feet. A terrified look overcame him. He fell backwards.

"Fuck!" John ran over and dropped to his knees beside Chris. "Chris! Chris, answer me, God damn it!"

There was nothing but silence. "God, Chris! Why won't you answer me?" John's voice quavered.

Just then a hijacker stepped through the door. He yelled for everyone to get down. The passengers screamed.

John took the gun from Chris's side. He leaned forward and pushed the curtain away. "Die, you God damn son of a bitch!" he cried. He pulled the trigger and killed the man.

He turned his attention back to Chris. "Come on, get up. Get up ,Chris." He shook his friend. After a moment, John hung his head.

"He's dead. He's dead," John sobbed quietly. Sorrow pierced his heart. He wept bitterly.

"Check his pulse!" an attendent offered. He hadn't thought of that. Quickly, he grabbed Chris's wrist.

"Oh my God, he's alive! He's alive!" John exclaimed. He picked Chris up and took him out side the kitchen and sat him in a seat.

"Do you have any alchohol? Rubbing alchohol?" he asked.

"Yes. I'll go get it." The attendent hurried off.

John held Chris's wrist until the attendent came back, speaking softly, hoping Chris could hear him. He unbuttoned Chris's jacked and shirt, then put the alchohol on his wounds. Chris jerked. John muttered for him to stay still and be quiet.

"What are you doing? What is that?" Chris mumbled.

"I'm putting alchohol on you."

"Can you get my phone?"

"Yeah, sure." John dug around in Chris's flight bag until he found it, then handed it to Chris.

"Thanks."

"No problem." He continued applying the alchohol.

Chris dialed is home number. He got the answering machine.

"Vanessa, this is Chris. I just called to say I love you. Tell Jim I love him to.

"There's some stuff going on. I'm sure it'll clear up though. I might be home late-" he said, trying not to choke. He fought the urge to cry.

"No. No, I should tell you. You deserve to know. But please, don't tell Jim...

"My plane was hijacked. You might already know. There was about five hijackers. We've killed one, and two are unconscious. Unfortunately, they stabbed me and john. I was shot.

"We're going to try to take back control of the plane. Hopefully we'll be successful. But, in case I don't make it, I wanted you to know that I'n sorry for any wrong I've done. I'm sorry that I hurt you, that I argued with you. I'm sorry. I love you," he finished between sobs. He hung up.

"We'll make it, Chris. We'll make it." John tried to sound confident, but even he knew they might not make it.

Chris buttoned up his shirt and put his jacket back on. "We'll try," he said. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Chris picked up his gun off the floor where Johm left it. He studied it. Anger and rage built up inside of him. He looked toward the cockpit.

"I'm ready."

"Ready for what?" John asked.

"Ready to take back my plane. I'm going to fucking murder someone," he said coldly.

A shiver went down John's back.

"Are you sure?"

"Fuck yeah, I'm sure."

"Look at us!"

"What about us? We can take them. Think about all we've done. All our missions an near-death experiences. Think of this as one of them."

"You're right. I'll go. Besides, we might as well die trying instead of not doing anything at all."

"Exactly." Chris started out. He held the pistol tight. They crept silently toward the cockpit.

Chris stopped to catch his breath. His chest ached and he wanted to cry out in pain, but instead he just grimaced, clenched his teeth, and cursed silently under his breath. He started forward again.

They came to the door. John looked back. He couldn't see or hear anyone. It was as if only he, Chris, and this mission existed.

"You ready?" Chris asked.

John turned back and nodded.

"Okay." Chris knocked on the door, then dropped to the floor. John followed. Chris positioned himself in a prone shooting position.

After a moment the door unlocked and opened almost an inch. That was all Chris needed. He shot through the crack at the hijacker's foot, causing him to jump back and scream.

Chris jumped up and yanked the door open. He shot the man again, then turned to shoot the other hijacker in the captain's seat. Before he could pull the trigger, the man shot him. Chris let out a hellish cry of agony and fell to the floor.

"Chris!" John yelled.

Chris looked up, pointed the gun, and fired. He saw the hijacker jerk as the bullet struck him in the heart.

Chris dropped his head back on the floor.

"Get up, Chris. Get up." John shook the pilot. Chris didn't move. "Chris?" John checked his pulse.

"Chris! Fuck!" John rolled him over on his back and gave him CPR. His heart raced with fear. "Oh my God! Oh my God! Don't die! You can't be dead! You can't be!" he yelled hysterically. He tried again.

Chris coughed and sputtered, gasping for air. John nearly fainted from relief. He helped Chris into the captain's seat and dragged the dead men out of the cockpit. He came back, took his seat, and put on his headset.

"This is United Heavy 119. We have an emergency. The plane was hijacked, but we've regained control. Both pilots were stabbed, and the captain's been shot twice. He's almost dead. We need to land immediately."

The response came before John had even finished. "Roger, cleared to make an emergency landing at O'Hare."

_O'Hare? Surely we're not already at O'Hare,_ John thought. But they were; he could see it on the horizon.

He glanced over at Chris. Chris was crying silently, holding his side where the bullets had hit him. They hit almost in the same place. He grimaced and clenched his teeth, and his body trembled violently. He cried out in pain, then spoke softly through clenched teeth. He seemed to be both praying and cursing.

John felt his own side where he was stabbed. It wasn't nearly as severe as Chris's. He had a good chance to survive. Chris, on the other hand, probably wouldn't make it. Hell, he already died once.

Chris mumbled something.

"What?" John asked.

"Can I land the plane?"

"Are you sure you want to?"

Chris nodded.

"Okay. You have the plane." He let go of the yoke, but he was ready to grab it if Chris couldn't keep control.

John though about the way Chris had asked. It bothered him. He could hear in Chris's voice that Chris didn't expect himself to live much longer either. It sounded as if he knew this would probably be his last time ever flying. It tore at John's heart to see his best friend dying so quickly. John cried softly.

Chris guided the plane in. The wheels touched the runway, barely jolting the plane as they hit the pavement. He brought the plane to a stop on the runway near the ambulances.

It was only then that John looked down. He picked up a piece of paper and looked at it.

"Look at this," he said, handing it to Chris.

Chris took it with trembling hands, squinting to read it through his blurry vision. It had the coordinates to Washington, D.C.

"So it was true?"

John nodded.

Chris gritted his teeth. He sighed. "Let's get off."

When they got on the ground, the paramedics loaded them onto an ambulance. They were eventually put in the same room at the hospital. John recovered before Chris, but he stayed with Chris until he recovered also. He worried about Chris most of the time they were there.

Chris's recovery was harsh and painful. He went through many phases similar to those of post-traumatic stress disorder, combat fatigue, and shock. He would often wake up screaming and crying from the hellish nightmares, remembering in frightening detail the times he had seen his comrades die. Sometimes he didn't wake up, instead screaming and yelling and crying in his sleep until John forced him awake. The rest of the time he cried out in pain, clenching his teeth, cursing, and screaming frightening, hellish cries of agony.

"What happened?" Chris asked on the way home.

"When?"

"On the plane. I blacked out a few times."

"You fell unconscious twice and died once. That's what happened. I had to give you CPR. You scared me to death, Chris."

"I-I died?" Chris stammered, staring at John in disbelief.

"You died."

"_What?_ How? When?"

"When we got the plane plane back, there were still two hijackers left. You shot one, then the other shot you, then you shot him. After that, you died, then I brought you back."

"Fuck. I died," Chris said quietly, surprised and slightly overwhelmed.

"Well, at least now we know you're not completely invincible," John said jokingly, trying to ease Chris's mind.

"No shit," Chris laughed softly, still shocked and disturbed. His sides still ached, but he was getting better. "I never said I was, but damn, what a way to prove it!" He sighed. "Then again, who's to say I'm not?" he joked.

"Me. I'm the one who brought you back."

"I know. Thank you. If it wasn't for you, I'd still be dead. I owe my life to you," Chris said sincerely.

"You're welcome."

Chris looked out at the sky. He watched a distant jet leave behind a white vapor trail. "I can't wait to be flying again," he sighed.


End file.
